


i still remember

by scandalousloki



Series: heartbreak! at the morhen cafe [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Singer Jaskier | Dandelion, because y'all asked for it, geralt actually talks, jaskier has a lot of feelings, some of them aren't so bad, triss is great at helping people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25435897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalousloki/pseuds/scandalousloki
Summary: Jaskier’s beginning to think that confessing his feelings via song was a bad idea…But maybe it wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe.(The sequel to "wish i were heather".)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: heartbreak! at the morhen cafe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1842364
Comments: 14
Kudos: 141





	i still remember

**Author's Note:**

> Back by (not so) popular demand. 
> 
> Jaskier has a lot of feelings in this one, but things get better for him. Which is what we all wanted anyway.
> 
> I hope you guys like it. :)

The brief second he spent locking eyes with Geralt as the audience erupted with applause felt like _hours_ . And just as much as he wanted to tear his eyes away and _never_ look back, he wanted to savor the moment-- genuinely not knowing if he’d ever see the silver-haired man again after the stunt he just pulled.

He was taken out of his trance when the woman beside Geralt began to curiously whisper something in her companion’s ear. And just like that, Geralt’s attention flickered back to her-- and Jaskier was metaphorically shoved onto the more disappointing side of the loveliest two-dimensional portrait he’d ever seen.

Jaskier shook his head and looked down at his knees, surprising himself when he instinctively brought his lips to the mic and murmured his thanks to the audience for “being so kind and supportive”. 

(He held the firm belief that, no matter what catastrophe happened to be whirling in a musician’s mind while they were on stage, they should always, _always_ be kind to their audience. Like planting a neat little flower garden while a hurricane uprooted an entire forest... Or some other analogy Jaskier was too disoriented to think of, at the moment.) 

In a blur, he bade his farewell to his listeners, introduced the next act-- Stephen on the Sax-- and bolted down the stairs without making eye-contact with anyone else.

(He didn’t even stop for the cute guy in the red shirt who was _definitely_ ogling him the whole time he was on stage-- which truly was a damned shame, if you asked Jaskier.)

He frantically bee-lined the familiar path through the bustling kitchen, dodging the swarm of hot plates and staff members surprisingly well. Some of the workers were twisting their torsos to look at him, saying some words that Jaskier couldn’t really pinpoint. 

Halfway into the kitchen, he started to realize that they were asking him if everything was good, or if he was _okay_ . The answer that never managed to pass his lips was: Yes, of course. Why _wouldn’t_ he be okay?

(How _could_ he be okay?)

He finally got into the half-full waiting area, where Triss-- almost on queue-- was standing and facing him, looking at Jaskier expectantly. She looked down briefly at his empty hands and furrowed her brows, which made Jaskier promptly realize that of course he’d left his _fucking_ guitar on stage. 

And with that, everything in Jaskier’s mind slowly started to crumble down.

(Every time Jaskier thought he’d moved on from it, it came back. He knew that time supposedly healed all wounds, but what good was it doing if the wounds kept fucking reopening themselves?)

Triss swiftly recognized the musician’s trembling hands, the usual indicator for such an event, and gently but quickly dragged Jaskier by the arm into the storage room, shutting the door behind them. Shutting out everyone but Triss and Jaskier. She was going to help him.

(Never enough, never enough, _never_ _enough_.)

He kneeled on the floor, feeling tears sting at his eyes again, suddenly feeling _everything_ ten times over. Triss kneeled with him and wrapped both her arms around his torso-- pulling him as close to her as possible.

Jaskier tried to focus on the way Triss’ warmth enveloped him, but his mind kept drifting to the deepening pit in his stomach. Or rather the _cause_ of it.

(Jaskier fucked it up with Geralt, again. Even if the man came here as a peace offering, as a method of welcoming him back into his life, Jaskier had managed to fuck it up. Royally. Like he always did. Which is why nobody wanted him. Why no one would _ever_ want him. Why nothing ever worked out. Why everything was always so difficult. Why, no matter how he stretched and bent, the ache inside him never went away.)

Jaskier had no idea when he’d started hysterically sobbing and trembling, but the shortness of his breath was definitely not helping the situation at _all_. His heart was pounding profusely, and it felt like ice started to spread in his chest.

He dug his face into the crook of Triss’ neck and brought his arms up to tangle his fingers in her hair. He tried to focus on what it felt like and smelt like-- 

(Coily ribbons and lavender.)

And it was better.

He locked his shaky hands in her curls as he continued to sob into her neck, consistently breathing in the scent of her body lotion. She tenderly caressed his arms and softly recited some of Emily Dickinson’s poetry into his ear until his trembling lessened. Her voice calmed him-- it made the ice that was feverishly spreading in his chest melt away.

And they stayed like that until Jaskier could breathe again.

➵➵➵

Jaskier went to work the following week as if nothing had happened. 

He still jogged to work, even though there was no _real_ point since he was still always late. He still touched up his eyeliner in the storage room, for aesthetic purposes, obviously. He still laughed it up with the audience before doing his normal set. Everything was normal again.

(Since _he_ never brought it up, Triss didn’t mention that Friday night again. Not even a slight inquiry or a passing reference, like she usually did when things like those happened.

Jaskier tried not to be bothered by that...)

➵➵➵

(...But by the start of the second week, Jaskier had given up on trying.)

He decided on being ten minutes early on Tuesday, so he could have time to talk to Triss. Of course texting her was probably an easier option, but where was the sophistication and class in that?

Jaskier shuffled in the door at exactly 7:45 on Tuesday night. Luckily, Triss was stationed at the front as the hostess again, meaning she was right in front of the door to the storage room. He entered the room, set his guitar case down, and didn’t even wait for Triss to acknowledge the fact that he was shockingly early before he pulled her into the room and shut the door behind them.

Her expression was riddled with deep confusion as she stumbled backwards, frustratedly shouting, “Jaskier, what on _earth_ are you-- I have to _work!_ Someone has to be out in the front to seat the guests--”

“They can wait a couple minutes, I promise,” he interjected impatiently, looking at her with pleading eyes.

She sighed, still wearing a stern expression on her face as she waited for him to go on.

“We need to--rather, _I--_ need to talk about... that... night,” he admitted hesitantly, before he could talk himself out of it.

Triss looked even more confused, exasperatedly asking, “What n--” 

As she stopped herself, her brows lifted and her mouth parted, which meant she understood. 

Jaskier took a breath.

“I don’t--” he began, trying to figure out the best way to phrase his thoughts, “You saw Geralt. And the… person... he came with.”

He scanned her face to see if there was any indication of discontent at the mention of Geralt’s name-- which probably would’ve made Jaskier feel like he wasn’t overreacting about the whole thing-- but her expression was blank.

(Sometimes Jaskier hated how good Triss was at keeping a perfectly neutral and unreadable face. It’s what made her so good at listening to people… and also at winning poker.)

She nodded. “I did.”

“And you saw that _I_ saw Geralt… and the person he came with,” he continued.

“I did,” she said, with more certainty than before.

He paused, looked around the room aimlessly, and waved his hands sporadically before continuing,

“I know we never really even talked about Geralt after… _everything_ happened with him... Because you know I don’t really _do_ well with big conversations… And I _truly_ appreciate you looking out for me when he came in. And I’m _so_ grateful that you let me bawl my eyes out on you while we sat on this… frankly unsanitary floor. But I need to--”

He took a shaky breath.

“I need to figure out how I _feel_ about all of it. How I feel about him, that is… More specifically, why it’s not going _away_. And I can’t do that by myself, Triss. I’ve tried and I just wind up in the same place. Over and over again. I can’t--”

She took his hand. He looked up at her expression, which had now softened significantly. She offered him a subtle smile-- a smile that was familiar and comforting, a smile that reminded him that he didn’t have to be alone. He accepted it graciously.

“Tell me as much as you’re comfortable with, and we’ll go from there,” she spoke. 

(It definitely wasn’t a _comfortable_ conversation, so to speak, but he told her everything. And she listened.

It took longer than a few minutes.)

➵➵➵

The days that followed were better. 

Jaskier and Triss shared a few more conversations about his feelings in the storage room-- after her shift ended though, because Renfri was _not_ happy about the fact that there was nobody greeting and seating the customers for half an hour on Tuesday. Which was understandable.

Even though Jaskier was still slightly terrified by performing, the fear wasn’t suffocating him anymore. And, apparently, it showed:

He was chirpier and more flirtatious with his audience. His jokes fell more loosely and naturally from his lips. His fingers danced along the strings of his guitar with more grace than ever. His voice carried the tunes more sweetly.

(He still instinctively looked for a specific pair of golden eyes in the audience every night, but at least now it didn’t hurt as much when he failed to find them.)

➵➵➵

The following Wednesday night, as Jaskier was about to walk up the stage, the cute guy in the red shirt… who was now wearing green, apparently, from the week prior stopped him. Jaskier swiveled around and glared at the man quizzically. 

“Sorry,” the stranger laughed sheepishly, probably realizing that he hadn’t yet said anything to constitute the… not _entirely_ unwelcome visit. “I’m Peter.”

Jaskier grinned. “Well, it’s _very_ nice to meet you, Peter… Is there something I can do for you?”

Peter bit on his bottom lip and chuckled, “Actually, uhm, I was wondering if you took song requests.”

Jaskier quirked an eyebrow up at him and hummed with surprise. “I don’t, usually... but I suppose I can make an exception for you, if you’d like.”

The man noticeably shot a lingering glance at Jaskier’s lips, but Jaskier pretended not to notice.

Jaskier continued teasingly, “Do be warned, though. If I don’t already know the song, it may take a couple of days for me to--”

“No no, you know the song,” Peter said with an unusual amount of certainty.

(Jaskier was only _slightly_ bothered that the man had interrupted him in such a manner. If Peter were any less attractive, Jaskier thought, the musician would’ve just up and walked away right then.)

“How can you be so sure?” Jaskier responded, tilting his head at Peter curiously.

“You’ve played it before. You just… _don’t_ anymore, for some reason,” he answered.

(Jaskier was, in every way possible, confused. He’s kept his set pretty much consistent these days, he thought. He began to mentally sift through his recent repertoire to see what song Peter could’ve _possibly_ been--

Oh.)

Jaskier straightened his posture and swallowed nervously. Needing to confirm his suspicions, he hesitantly asked, “And which song would that be?”

“Heather… by Conan Gray.”

Jaskier stilled and closed his eyes. Nothing hurt yet, but something unreachable was stirring inside his chest.

Peter noticed the sudden change in Jaskier’s demeanor and started backpedaling. “But you don’t have to, of course. All of your stuff is great, and I really like how you--”

“No, I--” Jaskier croaked, meeting Peter with a gentle smile, “I’ll sing it. Tonight.”

Peter slowly grew more at ease, seemingly relieved that Jaskier didn’t lash out at him, or something like that.

(Jaskier was going to hold true to his belief. Always being kind to his audience, no matter what catastrophe was whirling in his mind.)

Jaskier gave Peter a friendly pat on the shoulder and said, “Thank you for your request.” Then he was on stage.

The stirring in his chest stayed with him the whole time he performed that night. But when Jaskier sang Heather, he didn’t sing it for Geralt. He didn’t even sing it for Peter.

He sang it for himself.

(And there was something so beautifully liberating about that.)

➵➵➵

The rest of the month of September was pleasant.

Jaskier had gotten into the habit of inviting Triss to his apartment to watch Netflix stand-up comedies with his roommates every Saturday while they drank cheap wine.

And it was... actually fairly nice. 

(He enjoyed the comforting friendship they shared. She gave wonderful advice— though he hadn’t always taken it, admittedly. 

Her kind reminders and uplifting words lingered with him, even when she wasn’t there.)

➵➵➵

(It was unfortunate, though, that all of Triss’ words seemed to fly out of the window when Jaskier happened to catch a pair of golden eyes while sitting in his favorite coffee shop.)

Jaskier’s eyes swept away just as soon as they’d caught Geralt’s. 

The cold prickliness inside of him seemed to be starting again, but he was fine. He was going to be fine. 

(...Right?)

Iced caramel-macchiato in hand, he swiveled his body in his chair as far from the perpetrator as possible, which led him to be pressed up against the glass window. Which probably _looked_ strange, but was honestly one of his better options at the moment. 

He tried to think of what the condensation of the cup of iced coffee in his hand, and the temperature of the window on his bare arm, felt like—

(Cold wetness and not-wet coldness.)

And it was _fine_.

Rather, it _was_ fine, until—

“Jaskier,” a low, but tender voice cooed. The source of the voice was close, across from him maybe.

(And Jaskier _genuinely_ would’ve thought he was just imagining things, if he didn’t open his eyes and turn his head to look.)

And, lords, Jaskier had forgotten how much he’d enjoyed looking at him.

“Geralt,” he breathed, with something that wasn't quite relief.

The man wore a dark burgundy shirt and black jeans. And only the top half of his hair was tied back— in a bun, possibly. And, most importantly, he was alone.

Geralt tilted his gaze down and placed his hand on the empty chair in front of Jaskier. 

He hesitantly asked, “Can I …?”

The question lingered in the air, and for a second, Jaskier wasn’t quite sure if he knew how to answer it.

(His mind vaguely searched through the storage-room-conversations-with-Triss, but regardless he ultimately decided to respond with:)

“Why, of course!” 

And at that, Geralt pulled the chair and sat down in front of him. 

The two of them inspected each other for a few seconds, letting eyes dance over arms and faces and shoulders. 

(Had Jaskier been slightly more lucid, he would’ve felt self-conscious about the way Geralt was picking him apart. But part of him enjoyed being this vulnerable to him.)

After a few more moments of silent perusing, Jaskier finally spoke, “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” 

Geralt chuckled deeply and his face wore a modest smile. 

( _Wow_.)

“It has.”

Just as Jaskier was about to pull some sort of catch-up-conversation starter from out of his ass, Geralt’s mouth opened to speak and his expression twisted into a very thoughtful one… and Jaskier figured he should probably just hold off. 

“I, um… I went to see you… at The Morhen Cafe last month,” Geralt said calculatedly. 

(Shit.)

Jaskier tried not to look panicked, but Geralt must’ve caught the way his eyes widened.

“Your singing… It was… nice,” added the man.

(It wasn’t overwhelmingly eloquent, Jaskier thought, but it was the closest thing to a compliment he had ever gotten from Geralt. And he wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it… Other than flattered, of course.)

“Thank you,” Jaskier said warmly, ignoring the way his heart tightened in his chest. 

Geralt’s eyes softened for a moment before warping into the same concerned look he wore before. 

“You saw me. When I was there.” 

Jaskier swallowed then replied, “I did.”

Geralt avoided Jaskier’s eyes as he tentatively said, “But it’s not what you thought.”

(Jaskier’s brain wasn’t working at its full functioning capacity, so whatever _that_ was supposed to mean was beyond him. He was lost.)

Jaskier said nothing, so Geralt changed his approach.

“You sang a song... I think you meant for me to hear it.”

(... _Fuck._ ) 

Jaskier looked at him blankly, knowing that he’d make things _massively_ worse if he said anything right then.

Geralt continued, “I didn’t really hear the words while you were singing because I was… a bit distracted. But I listened to the song when I got home, and…”

(The cold prickling turned into warm prickling, and Jaskier waited for Geralt to say something that would untie the knot in his throat and allow him to breathe again.)

“The woman I went with. She’s a friend.”

Jaskier nodded slowly, spinning frantic circles in his head.

“I didn’t… _replace_ you. I tried to, but…”

(The knot was getting tighter.)

“I realize how it must’ve looked. How you must’ve felt. And I didn’t… I _never_ want you to feel like that. Not because of me.”

(But Jaskier did, _all_ the time. Every grilled cheese sandwich Geralt made for him. Every text message about some long-winded nature show that Jaskier couldn’t care less about, but pretended to just because Geralt was so excited about it.)

“You said something. In our last conversation... And I wasn’t sure how to handle it then, so I handled it poorly...” 

(The warm prickling was accelerating.)

“I never want you to feel unwanted. Not by me. Because… _I_ …”

Oh.

_Oh_.

Jaskier exhaled, feeling all of the knots and pricks in his body dissipate. He placed his hands on the table between them, facing upwards. As an invitation. 

Geralt looked at Jaskier, then down at Jaskier’s hands with deep consideration. 

And when Jaskier felt Geralt’s palms meet his own, it was unlike any warmth he’d ever felt before.

They spent a moment getting used to the way their quivering hands melded together. It was new, but certainly not unbearable. 

Geralt’s hands were larger than he’d previously thought, and his thumbs were tracing electrifying but irregular geometric shapes on Jaskier’s palms.

“I don’t do well with big conversations,” Geralt said eventually. 

Jaskier grinned and brought his eyes up to meet Geralt’s. 

“I know. I’m not so great at them either.”

“And that’s... okay with you?” Geralt asked, out of genuine concern.

Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s hands affectionately and beamed at him.

“More than okay.”

  
(And it truly, _truly_ was.)


End file.
